


we'll carry on

by daringyounggrayson



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [19]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is a Good Other Parent, Batman Bingo, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Dick Grayson is Batman, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Dick Grayson, Intubation, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29992350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daringyounggrayson/pseuds/daringyounggrayson
Summary: Dick gets hurt in the field, and Alfred tries to get him home.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833130
Comments: 22
Kudos: 104





	we'll carry on

**Author's Note:**

> ithilgalad75 requested “Shot” with Dick and Alfred

“Batman, you must get up. I’ve allowed you too much rest as it is.”

Dick wheezes where he normally would’ve laughed. “Rest—is that . . . is that what you”—Dick stops, panting for a moment as he tries and fails to catch his breath—“you call it?” Dick wonders if Alfred can even understand him. Each word forces the bullets in his chest to swirl and rattle, and the words catch in his throat and mix with blood. 

“The car, sir,” Alfred insists, pleads. “You’re nearly there.”

Dick still hasn’t caught his breath—that’s what Alfred’s so-called “rest” had been for. Maybe his breath is gone for good, MIA.

“Batman, respond.”

Dick opens his eyes, lifts his head from the ground with a cough. “Did I . . . pass out?”

“Only briefly. Now listen to me: you need to get to the car.”

Dick drops his head back down with a choked sob and squeezes his eyes so tight that he sees spots. The pain and blood loss has factorialized his weight, and if he has to drag himself one more inch, his arms will fall off. “I can’t, I _can’t_.” He wants to be done, after everything, he deserves to be done. 

“You bloody must,” Alfred snaps. Then, softer, he says, “Master Richard— _please_ , I—” Alfred cuts off the transmission, and it’s quiet for nearly ten seconds. “You _must_ , you just must.”

The words would be enough on their own, but it’s Alfred’s tone, the desperation and pleading, that gets to Dick like nothing else. 

Dick groans at the mere thought of moving, but he tries all the same—anything for Alfred, anything to make sure he never sounds like that again. 

Dick coughs and wheezes and pants and mewls, but he’s able to drag himself a few yards before taking another rest.

“Good, lad,” Alfred encourages. “Not much further now.”

A few more cycles of encouragement and rest pass before Dick makes it to the car, and he leaves an exceptional amount of blood behind. 

Dick collapses halfway between the floor and the seat, but he’s made it. “Home,” he tells the car, hoping he’s said it loud enough for the autopilot to activate. 

He doesn’t feel the pull of the car, so he must have passed out, because next thing he knows, Alfred is pulling him out of the car. There are tears stuck in the corners of his eyes, a resolution in his frown.

“Home,” Dick tries to mumble, not sure if he’s asking or hoping.

“Yes, Master Dick, you’re home now.” Alfred presses a kiss into Dick’s hair. “Oh, my dear boy, I’m so proud of you.” 

* * *

Dick is staring up at a bag of dark red blood when he realizes he’s awake. His brain processes his surrounding slowly. There’s something wrong with his throat, his chest, his head. His left hand is cold and free to twitch against something soft and knit, but his right hand is warm and restrained. He feels like an objective bystander rather than someone experiencing these things for himself, but he can’t decide if that’s a problem or not. He wonders if what’s happening is even real, or if he’s dreaming. 

He tries to sit up— _real, real, definitely_ _real_ —and stops immediately when the small contraction is enough to send spikes of pain through his chest and head. He whines, but it sounds _wrong_. His tongue moves around a tube in his mouth, and he realizes that there’s a tube _down his throat_ ,and then he can’t breathe.

“Shh.” The weight lifts from his right hand, but before he can fully acknowledge that it’s gone, both of his wrists are being forced down against the bed. “Relax sir, you’re alright. You’ve been shot and just had surgery; I’m afraid the tube will need to stay in a little longer.”

Dick blinks tears out of his eyes to find Alfred peering down at him, eyebrows pinched close together. He stops trying to fight against Alfred’s hold, tries to relax and let the ventilator breathe for him. He tries to make it better.

“There we go,” Alfred praises him, finally letting go of Dick’s wrists and brushing his hand through Dick’s hair.

It helps, but it’s still not better. Dick doesn’t know how to explain that, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to suffocate anymore.

Alfred checks his watch, frowns. “Perhaps a stronger dose of pain medication?”

Weakly, Dick signs, “ _Yes_.”

Alfred nods, and Dick watches as Alfred adjusts one of the clear bags above his head. 

“It will make you tired,” Alfred explains, “but rest is what you need.”

The latter could be said for Alfred too, by looking at his face and the bags under his eyes. Dick wants to ask if he’s been down here all night, but his hands feel heavy and too uncoordinated for real conversation, and his brain isn’t much better.

Dick’s eyelids already feel heavier by the time Alfred sits back down. 

“I feared for a moment that I would need to ask Superman to bring your”—Alfred stumbles, clears his throat—“bring you back to the bunker.” Alfred runs his thumb across Dick’s knuckles. 

Guilt tugs in Dick’s chest. Alfred’s already lost one—Alfred’s already lost Bruce. He shouldn’t have to worry about losing Dick too. It wouldn’t be fair. 

Dick squeezes Alfred’s hand, and Alfred squeezes back.

Alfred sniffs. “But I needn’t have worried; you have always managed the impossible.”

Dick’s lips twitch into a smile around the tube. Pulling his hand out of Alfred’s grasp, he signs, “ _All I did was crawl to the Batmobile_ _._ ”

“Yes,” Alfred agrees, solemn. He takes Dick’s hand again. "And I am grateful.”

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone remind me to write more of these two because I love them and I have a lot of thoughts
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! If you're feeling up to it, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://daringyounggrayson.tumblr.com/)


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